What else could she do except analyze every trick he used and keep looking for him through the vast Internet? There were millions of satellite transmissions, but only one was his. One would lead to him. She’d been close many times, but he was always a step ahead. When she slept, she heard him laughing at her failures.
Kate stared at the live feed. Watched as the dark-haired beauty was tied to a chair. Watched the camera zoom to her face. The fear in her young eyes, the strength of her profile. A knife at her neck, menacingly wielded by a man Kate didn’t recognize. She captured his image for analysis.
The sound suddenly came on, loud, vibrating. Music. Then it was cut off, replaced by Trask’s voice, low, proper, formal. “Meet Lucy. Watch her for free until the countdown hits forty-four hours. Then click on the link for a secure business transaction. Isn’t she lovely?”
Lucy gasped, her breath coming fast, louder, her body shaking. The onscreen creep moved the knife away and Kate watched a small trail of blood flow from the poor girl’s neck. Down to her jacket.
“Let me go!” Lucy screamed.
Laughter was heard in the background.
A disclaimer scrolled along the bottom of the screen:
“Kill the Whore” is fantasy rape role-playing. All players are actors. No one is seriously hurt during the production of this special.
Kate hit Send. Then she grabbed her coffee mug and threw it against the far wall.
THREE
THE KINCAID FAMILY mobilized to find Lucy. The detective, Carina, pulling in law enforcement personnel; the computer e-crimes expert, Patrick, creating an online timeline; PI Connor working his sources.
And Dillon was asked the same question a dozen times.
“Who would do this?” his mother asked this time. “Who would take our Lucy?”
“We’ll find her,” he grimly replied.
Dillon knew all too well the type of psychopath who took a girl like Lucy. As a forensic psychiatrist, it was his job to get into their heads, to listen to their abnormal fantasies, to learn what made them hurt people, in the hopes that someday the authorities could reduce violent crime, make society safer.
And all Dillon’s insider knowledge made sitting here, in the kitchen, trying to console his mother, that much more frustrating.
He knew what kind of person would kidnap Lucy. He knew what kind of fantasies he harbored, what he would do to her simply because he could. Killers didn’t feel remorse or emotion or guilt like normal people. They enjoyed inflicting pain. That Lucy was with such a person terrified Dillon.
Nick Thomas walked into the kitchen, making eye contact with Dillon.
“What?” Rosa Kincaid asked. “Did you find her?”
“No, ma’am. Not yet. I’m sorry. Where’s the Colonel?”
“In his office. On the phone. Calling everyone we can think of.” Rosa looked at Dillon. “It’s been sixteen hours. That’s bad, isn’t it? Justin was killed immediately after-”
Dillon pulled his mother into a fierce hug. “We’re going to find her. You can’t compare this with what happened to Justin.” Eleven years ago Dillon’s seven-year-old nephew had been kidnapped from his bedroom and murdered. The random act of violence had changed everyone in the family. Dillon had planned to go into sports medicine; instead, he became a forensic psychiatrist in an attempt to make sense of what was so wrong in the world.
Nick motioned with his head that he needed Dillon to follow him upstairs. Dillon nodded. “Mama, let me take you to Dad’s office.”
“No, I need to make coffee. And something to eat. When Carina and Connor get back they’ll be hungry.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go. Find Lucy,” said Rosa Kincaid, her Cuban features fiercely determined.
Dillon followed Nick upstairs to Lucy’s bedroom, where Patrick was working on Lucy’s computer. “I got a call from a friend in the FBI. They found Lucy.”
From his tone, Dillon was certain Lucy was dead. “What happened?” His voice cracked with emotion.
Nick rested a hand on his arm. “She’s still alive.”
“Where?”
As soon as Nick opened the door, Patrick let out a vicious curse. Dillon stared at the computer screen.
She was tied to a chair, her long dark hair loose and tangled, her dark eyes looking wild beneath smeared makeup. When she jerked her head up, Dillon said, “It’s a webcam.”
“Live,” Patrick said, “and the fucking FBI doesn’t know where it’s coming from!”
“What are those numbers?” Dillon asked. In the bottom right-hand corner there appeared to be a digital clock of some sort with the numbers running backward.
46:02:36. 46:02:35.
“I don’t know yet,” Patrick said. “Nick’s FBI contact sent us this link and asked if she was Lucy.”
Though technically the FBI wouldn’t get involved in a typical missing persons case this quickly, Nick’s best friend was the special agent in charge out of Seattle, Quincy Peterson. He had unofficially put the word out about Lucy.
Nick dialed a number from the house phone and put it on speaker. “Peterson,” the voice answered.
“Quinn, it’s Nick Thomas. I have you on a speakerphone with Dillon and Patrick Kincaid, Lucy’s brothers.”
“Is it her?” Quinn asked.
“Yes,” Patrick said through his clenched jaw.
“Shit.”
“Agent Peterson,” Dillon asked, “what’s going on? How did you find her?”
“A friend found the link.”
“And you don’t know where Lucy is being held?”
“No. The webcam feed is masked. He bounces the data all over the world before it’s fed into a server and shown. That server is rotated continually to prevent us from tracking him. We have Quantico putting all their best people on it, and my friend is working on tracking the feed as well, but it’s difficult.”
Patrick interjected, “That doesn’t make me feel any better. Does this ‘friend’ have a name?”
“The FBI is getting involved. We’re assembling a task force of the best agents in the country to find your sister.”
“What can we do?” Dillon asked, realizing Peterson had avoided the question about his “friend.” “My brother Patrick is the head of e-crimes. We can-”
“What I need is a recap of exactly what happened when Lucy disappeared. Any witnesses?”
“No,” Dillon said. “She disappeared between nine and eleven yesterday morning. She was supposed to be meeting someone at Starbucks before her graduation, and her car, with her purse and keys inside, was found in the parking lot, but no one saw anything. The employees didn’t think she’d been inside.”
Nick spoke up. “We learned she’d planned on meeting someone she met online.”
“Who?”
“His name is Trevor Conrad and he’s supposed to be a student at Georgetown, but we can’t find any record of him.”
“I need her computer,” Quinn said. “I’ll send someone from the local FBI office to pick it up.”
“No,” Dillon said.
“Hell, no,” Patrick concurred. “We’ll bring it to the task force. Consider yourself working very closely with the San Diego Police Department.”
“I don’t think-” Quinn began, then relented. “All right. We’re basing operations out of the San Diego field office. I’m on my way down there now.”
